Something for the Weakened

The Crow Gets Comfy – The Twelfth Chapter

Friday, April 25th, 2008 by

The Crow Gets Comfy is an incomplete novel that I began writing in 1994 and I am transcribing here for posterity, shits, giggles and to see just how poor a scribe my eighteen year old self was. I will cease when I either become bored with doing it, when enough people beg me to or when I reach the end of what was written. The only alterations I am making to my original manuscript are for spelling or grammar – everything else was spilt from my half formed mind at the time (frankly my grammar hasn’t improved immensely, so I doubt you’ll notice much improvement). I have not read it in almost a decade and am only reading as I type, so am almost as much in the dark as you before reading the next chapter. The preceding episodes can be found below or in the archive found at the top of the page. Annotations to references, rip offs or other items of interest to me (if no one else) will be inserted in italics at the bottom. Ladies and otherwise, I give you The Crow Gets Comfy. Enjoy if you can.

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER – IN WHICH THINGS HAPPEN. A BIT

The Crow arrived at the stunningly unimpressive door at the end of the corridor. He quietly knocked, apprehensively. The door opened mysteriously without his touching it. He entered a huge gothic room, filled with what seemed to be little more than broken crap. In a far corner resided a small desk which was partially obscured by a huge leather swivel chair in which a figure sat. It appeared to be scribbling with both hands on separate pieces of paper.

The Crow took a step forward, narrowly avoiding the opportunity of tripping over an upturned, partially destroyed photocopier, and coughed politely in the hope of getting the figure’s attention. There was no response. He coughed again, slightly louder this time. “You ought to see someone about that,” the figure spoke, continuing it’s scribbling. The Crow was rather taken aback by the voice of this supreme being. Rather than the soft ethereal tones which he had hoped for, nee expected, this voice sounded slightly reminiscent of the dulcet tones of Frankie Howerd.

“Um, excuse me,” The Crow uttered timidly. The figure halted it’s doodling and slammed the pens down on the table. “What?” it said through what sounded like clenched teeth.

“Er . . .” The Crow sputtered.

“Well?” the voice inquisited.

“Hm,” The Crow continued, “um, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but, er, well, what with me being dead ‘n’ all, er, I was just sort of wondering if . . . er, if you happened to be . . . er, if you . . .”

“Who?” asked the figure, snidely.

“If you happened to be, er . . . God?”

The figure burst into hysterical laughter, which appeared to last an eternity or so. As the laughter subsided, the figure slowly swang the chair round to face The Crow. This is it, he thought, finally a chance to meet with the supreme being. The man who created the universe. He then spent a moment reasoning. If he was the messiah, surely God would be his true father. The figure span into view. Rather than the naked, overly bearded, white haired old man that The Crow had been expecting, there instead sat a youngish man wearing a tartan suit, bowler hat, an extraordinarily bright orange shirt, a bowler hat and a huge grin.

“Dad,” The Crow cried, flinging his arms in the air. The man burst back into hysterical laughter for what appeared to be another eternity. “Erm,” said The Crow, raising both his right eyebrow and forefinger, and hoping for a little bit of a response from ‘God’.

“You know,” giggled the chequered celestial, “you’re the 427th person to ask me that this morning and, by the way, I’m not.”

“Uh?” replied come questioned The Crow.

“And I’m not that either,” completed Mr. Tartan, wiping his eyes with a fluorescent yellow handkerchief.

“Uh?” repeated The Crow.

The figure pulled itself to it’s feet, pulled out a two foot long cigar and, placing it between his lips, pressed a button on the side of the chair which it had been sitting in, causing a huge flame to explode across the room from some obscure part of an oil rig. The Crow leapt back, tripping over a large plastic Alsatian filled with copper coins and plummeted onto his back. He lifted his head only to witness the flame’s sudden subsidence, leaving the figure standing, exhaling smoke through a broad grin. He strolled casually over towards The Crow, who was in the process of returning to a vertical state, puffing merrily on his cigar as he went.

“You see, m’boy,” said ‘God’, his voice briefly resembling that of James Earl Jones, “you’re new here ‘n’ I’ve just got to iron out a couple of . . . how shall we say . . . misconceptions that you may have about where you are and who I am, or, more importantly,” he puffed on his cigar and drew his head nearer The Crow’s, “who I’m not.”

“Well,” said The Crow, “can I ask you just this one question.”

“Certainly,” grinned the character.

“Who the fu . . .” he paused abruptly, before continuing, “. . . fuhlipping heck are you?”

“Ha ha!” laughed the creature. “I am known by many as ‘The Hand Which Guides The Universe’, which of course I am, but that’s a bit long winded in general conversation. A lot of people call me Murphy, but I’ve always thought of that as a bit of a shoddy name, so I’d be happiest if you’d just call me Sod.”

“Sod?” questioned The Crow.

“Sod,” repeated Sod.

“Sod,” The Crow said again, tediously. “As in Sod’s Law,” he asked, moving the conversation onto pastures new.

“Yip,” retorted Sod in a gunslinger’s manner.

“So, you’re basically the geezer who makes everything in the world, or should that be the universe . . .”

“It should be,” Sod butted.

“Mm . . . so you make everything in the universe that should go wrong . . . err, go wrong?”

Sod put his left hand on his own chin and leant, nonchalantly on a two hundred watt amplifier which had evidently received major boot damage. “Well to put it basically, yes,” he said, shrugging ever so slightly.

“But – but – but – but – but,” stuttered The Crow, “but whaddaboutgod?” blurted he.

“Don’t you know any history, boyo? T’was, oooh, thirty-nine years or so since I saw Professor Alan Montague Reinhardt y’know? He really was God. He was even Allah for a while, ‘n’ I think he might have even been Buddah for a day or two. God is dead. He never really existed. There’s just me. No one else. Just me.”

“Hrm,” said The Crow, somewhat disheartened and resting his buttocks on the legs of an upturned coffee table. “So, just out of curiosity, would you say that the likelihood of my being the messiah might be just a tad on the low side?”

“Well,” Sod said, rubbing his chin, “that’s one of the things I wanted to mention to you. Come with me.” He beckoned The Crow to follow him over to a small clearing in the room. There, the pair fell onto a ragged, foam leaking holey leather sofa (holey as in it had holes, for any of those uncertain). “Now,” said Sod, kicking a battered old television set into life with one of his highly polished winklepickers, “watch this.” The opening credits to ‘Never The Twain’, the popular 1980’s situation comedy starring Windsor Davies and Donald Sinden flashed up. “Oo, bugger,” exclaimed Sod, putting his foot through the telly screen. “Sorry about that,” he went on, “but it’s an old favourite of mine.”

“What was it you were going to show me anyway?” asked The Crow, already cringing slightly, having realised that whatever it was, it wasn’t terribly good.

“Mm, I suppose I’ll have to tell you, now that I’ve destroyed the last telly in the room,” Sod pondered, helping the author (i.e. – me) out of a bit of a rut. He stood up and began to stroll around the clearing a little. “You see,” he began, “you’ve been dead for 16 years now, yes?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask about that” meant The Crow. “It didn’t really seem to be 16 years in that waiting room.”

“Well, time in there has a habit of distorting quite a bit,” Sod explained. He began slightly over emphasizing things by waving his arms around like something of a madman. “It can seem like you’ve been there for aeons, or with some folk, it can only appear to be a few minutes. Anyhow, that being beside the point let’s put it to one side and ignore it.” Sod walked to the door The Crow had entered by, which he (that’s The Crow) at this point noticed was next to a very large compass needle. He plucked it from the wall using both hands and then positioned the wholly two dimensional object at such an angle at which it was totally invisible to The Crow from where he sat. “There, that’s better,” beamed Sod at the befuddled rag. He strolled back to the clearing, acquiring a Jackson’s chameleon on the journey, stroking the horned beast lovingly as he strode. “Anyway, where was I?” asked the universe’s controller.

“Er, it’s been 16 years . . .” tailed off The Crow.

“That’s right, yes, it’s been 16 years since your death and because of it you’ve destroyed the Earth.”

“Shit,” said The Crow. “I knew I left the gas on.

Annotations

I was a great believer in Sod’s Law back then. Not quite as much now, having realised that most of my downfalls are self made. The second book seems to be an attempt to wander off into broader comedy. Whether that’s successful or not is in the interpretation of the reader I suppose. Can’t say that I chuckled much. There’s not much else to add, even in a specific way.

Para. 1 – The manuscript actually describes ‘a door at the end of the doorway’. Which is arse. So I changed it to corridor, as it at least makes sense.

Para. 9 – Not sure if Sod was supposed to be wearing two bowler hats or if I got bored halfway through writing that sentence. I left both in as it amused me to do so.

Para. 30 – I don’t really think that Allah was a man named Alan from the future. Please don’t hurt me.

Para. 32 – The sofa described was the one in my good chum Toylor’s lounge. I lived with that sofa for a year and, despite it’s hopelessly battered appearance, it was remarkably comfortable. It was brown.

Para. 36 – ‘Rag’ was a term of derision used by my group of pals way back when. It may well stem from a poem that a quick Google points to being authored by John Agard. The pronunciation of ’scissors mouth’ in a televisual reading of the piece was much imitated by many of us. In a way that might now be considered racist. Oh God.

Next time – The Thirteenth Chapter – Unlucky For Several

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